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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973945">Connecting Swing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcunt/pseuds/vulcunt'>vulcunt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Break Up, Domestic Violence, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:31:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcunt/pseuds/vulcunt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Addiction wasn't what ended Dean and Seamus' relationship. One connecting swing did.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Connecting Swing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean slammed the door behind him. His suitcase jumped and tumbled down steps he could barely see. It was near pitch black on the street and the single lamplight down he way only blurred in his teary vision. The wheels of his small case we too loud on the pavement, struggling to keep up with angry stride, but he couldn’t slow himself down. He needed to be out, and away, and—just—far away from Seamus.</p>
<p>Dean was nearly three blocks over before he remembered that he was a wizard and could fucking apperate. He stopped completely short, letting the handle of his suitcase collapse loudly down on the quiet residential street. He fumbled in though his jacket and jumper to fish out his wand but once he had it in his hand his he realized he was sobbing. Loudly. He couldn’t even think of where to go. His mum’s? She was in Spain, on holiday. His dad’s? His dad would probably be even worse off than Seamus this time of night. Dean had no time, no patience, no part himself he was willing to give to fucking drunks anymore.</p>
<p>His eye throbbed. Dean could <em>episkey</em> it in a second. Or could he? He felt like his head wasn’t on right anymore. Was there a spell to fix head-not-on-right-ness? His throat hurt from crying. He tried to stop, hold his breath, like he was a child all over again and his mother had made him sit in the corner for not listening to her or some other small thing. Dean tried to will the tears to stay in his head like he had then. Maybe if he tried not to breathe, no sound, no sob would escape.</p>
<p>The same thing happened now as then—when his body finally demanded air, the sob only came out louder, worse. Fuck. He couldn’t apperate now. His body only wanted to go down. Collapse. So he did.</p>
<p>Dead sat hard on the curb with his useless wand in his hand and cried.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>When his sobs had reduced to rough gasps and sniffles, Dean wiped his face a few times roughly, trying to think of where he would go. Not back. This was it for him, the last straw—the last time, whatever. He’d get his stuff later. Maybe send Neville—no, not Neville, maybe Parvati. Parvati would help him get his things out of that flat. She was on ministry business in St. Petersburg for a few more days, but she’d help him the second she got back, he knew.</p>
<p>Dean drew his jacket around himself tighter. If only it wasn’t the middle of October, he could crash at Neville’s place. But Neville was in teachers’ residence at Hogwarts until May—and there was no way to casually floo to Hogwarts if you weren’t staff or faculty. The war had been over for years but the wizarding world had a long memory, security measures were tight. Plus teachers’ quarters were really only built for one person at a time. It would be a major imposition, for sure, to show up, bedraggled and flat-less at god knows what hour in the morning.</p>
<p>Christ—why was it Dean who was out in the cold? Driven out of his warm flat filled his belonging, a flat he paid half-rent for. Why couldn’t he be in his warm bed right now, under thick covers and the sheets he had just run through the dryer this morning? Instead he was on this fucking cold, damp street with too few lamplights. Dean was out here with only this tiny suitcase of clothes and his wand, gripped tight in his freezing fingers, to his name. Fuck.</p>
<p>Seamus was probably still passed out, face down on the rug. Where Dean had left him. For a dark, dark moment, Dean hoped Seamus would choke on his own sick and die in the night.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” Dean whispered pressing his palms to his eyes, before wincing and immediately jerking one hand away from the cut above his eye. “Fuck!” he said more emphatically, rubbing his one good eye hard, before taking his wand in both hands, absently, anxiously wringing it in his hands. He was trying to be in the moment, this current, very pressing moment of his sudden housing crisis, and not in a different moment, half an hour ago, when Seamus’ large fist barreled towards his—</p>
<p>He just—he just needed to get to some motel, or inn, or something for the night. Worry about a place to sleep for the night right now and leave the things that weren’t the very pressing possibility of sleeping in the street for tomorrow. And to hurry up about it, some fucking neighborhood watch knobhead was certainly going to call the police on a black man with a suitcase crying on a curb in this nice residential area. Fuck.</p>
<p>He had to stand. Up. Get up, Dean.</p>
<p>Dean’s back, knees and neck protested as he stood up from the prone position he’d been in for at least twenty minutes. Crouching and crying on a frozen fucking curb was not good on the knees. He wiped his nose with his jacket cuff. He was trembling, one bad thought away from the tears sliding out again. He could feel a sob creeping the back of his throat.</p>
<p>“Lumos,” Dean whispered hoarsely, instead of crying. No time for crying now. A bed. Food, maybe.</p>
<p>A familiar warm light flickered on at the end of his wand, probably the weakest he’d cast since first year. The light caused his vision to swim, blurring the already darkened and shadowy street. A memory, unbidden, slipped to the front of his mind. Wading through a field of tall grass after midnight, lightning bugs in the distance. Padma and Parvati ahead with their lighted wands raised high to ward off the dark, the sound of Seamus’ laugh behind him—</p>
<p>Dean’s sob caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and angrily as he blinked the tears away. Not the time. Wand. Knight bus. Right.</p>
<p>Dean grabbed the handle of his tiny black roller suitcase, stepped out onto the street, and raised his wand.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was supposed to be the first part of a longer fic but it got out of hand, oops. Might revisit, who's to say?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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